Blood of a Lamb, Roar of a Lion
by KageBecks27
Summary: Arthur gets kidknapped by a serial killer on the rampage. It's up to Francis to save him before it's too late. But just who is this psycho and what does he want with Arthur? Higher rating later on. Some dark stuff too. Contains hinted rape/torture FRUK
1. Chapter 1

Hey everybody! This is my first story going solo that I have posted on here. Yeah it's kinda dark but...yeah. Please no flames! I'm ascared of fire _ Anyway I hope you like it.

^KageBecks27^

Oh and here's my disclaimer I guess. I don't own any of the characters from Hetalia but the other messed up in the head characters are all mine ^^ Enjoy!

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**Blood of a Lamb, Roar of a Lion**

**Chapter 1**

Arthur was pleasantly looking forward to his time with Francis that afternoon, not having been able to spend much time with his lover in the recent weeks. He grinned softly, folding the rag in his hands as he looked about his home with a critical eye for any dust patches he might have missed. Nothing caught his eyes however and he sauntered into his parlor, right into the warm glow of the late morning sunshine. Arthur paused to bend the crick out his back, soaking in the pleasant warmth. Outside was simply a beautiful day.

Stooping over a chair, he reached and unlocked the window, pushing it out and basking in the mellow breeze, smelling the hints of flowers only just starting to bloom in the bed under the window. _Perhaps Francis and I should take a walk later_, England thought to himself, stowing the rag into his pant's pocket and heading to the kitchen for a pot of tea before the Frenchman came over. The simple thought of his golden haired lover brought an air of calmness, accompanied by the faintest murmurs of desire and gentle love. He just wanted to see him again, to hold him and be held.

He never saw the shadow pass by.

A smile lit up his face, an expression becoming more and more common these days as opposed to his notorious frown. Humming, he walked through the black and white tiled kitchen and to the pantry, sighing as he went deep inside to stretch for one of his reserve tins. A scornful glance was given as he studied the tin, dubious of its age and therefore taste. Shrugging in the end, he moved back into the confines of his kitchen and placed it on the edge of the counter while a thought began to whirl through his mind. Jogging to the parlor, he switched the TV on to the local news station.

A serious faced woman popped up, her voice describing the recent crime wave to hit England and the gory details that accompanied it. A pang of regret filled Arthur's stomach and he crossed his arms, vigilant as the anchor continued to fill the world in on the recent string of homicides. As she explained about the last five victims, all men, the channel displayed their youthful pictures and England felt the bitter pang fill him again, a deep regret from being unable to keep his own citizens from harm.

Had he not been so engrossed, he would have noticed the visage of the man who flickered through his kitchen.

England glanced back with a wayward thought, only looking to the screen again as another caption showed up, labeling the marks of the killer rampaging through his land. The kettle was crying out though, so Arthur returned to the tiled room, pausing only to shut the window as a chill passed over him. Pulling the red bulbous pot off and letting it cool for the slightest moment, England glanced down at the tin of tea, a small caress of alarm filling him at the odd angle the tin sat. Had he left it like that? Surely he had placed the tin's picture away from him. The picture of the blood red rose on it suddenly seeming garish against the white counter.

"Arthur you fool, you're on edge with this whole case." He 'tisked' lightly, shaking his head and rubbing gently at the bridge of his nose while spooning out the dark shriveled leaves, shutting them into the metal ball as he poured the steaming water over it. The kettle moved back to its home on the stove and England moved over to the small breakfast table, still listening to the susurrations of the television out back.

Tick. Tick. Tick. That's all that accompanied him in his silence as he waited for the leaves to steep, hearing a soft jingle play as the news switched to a commercial break. He drummed his fingers gently, finally taking a sip. Scrunching his face up, Arthur glared at the sepia colored water. There was an odd taste to it, something too saccharine and holding a terrible aftertaste. Brushing it off to the tea being old, Arthur continued to sip the tea gently.

God, he couldn't wait until France got here. He drummed his fingers against the wood again. There had been a break to the world meetings so he couldn't even see him there. In his mind's eyes he could envision the taller man laughing, jesting lightly probably, while lounging in the rare attire of sweat pants and a tee shirt. When Francis had visited him last they both had retired to the couch, watching _Doctor Who_ in pajamas while arguing over their favorite doctor. A touch of heat spread over Arthur's cheeks and he cleared his throat quickly.

Throbs split through his skull, forcing winces at the pain. Rubbing at the skin over his temple, Arthur took another draught of the hot tea. Again, the pain filled him and he grumbled as he began to get up to retrieve some of the medicine. Moving had been a horrible idea. Like a switch being toggled, his muscles seized and he couldn't move. Pure will forced his body to move towards the medicine cabinet as his body responded lethargically. With a jerk, he dropped the cup from his hands, dark liquid pouring onto the floor and porcelain shattering as he crumpled against the wood, then to the floor while his breaths puffed in and out like a fish dying on land. His head lolled to the side, supported only slightly by the slump of his frame. Arthur's vision swam and he darted his eyes over as the cabinet under the sink began to creak.

A dark form seemed to unfold itself from the tiny space, lithe frame straightening fluidly as it reached its full height. The being was covered from head to toe in black, leaving no skin visible except what little the ski mask he wore allowed. Cold steel eyes bore into him, entertainment dancing behind the orbs. A smirk stretched his lips as he silently stalked closer, like a wolf towards an injured rabbit. "Hello, Mr. Kirkland," he said, his voice smooth and almost charismatic.

Nerves, muscles, and bones refused to move no mater how much Arthur suddenly began to shriek in his mind to _get the fuck away right now_– the only response from what had to be drugging was the flicker of his eyes, the terror racing through his limbs –striking a cold and slimy dead knowing into his gut. The man slithered towards him, every movement closing the precious and brittle space of safety and protection between them. Terrors, screams, nightmares– all the horror manifested in the world swept over his eyes and burned away all rationality as the gap was closed and this creature ascended on him. The sound of a laugh– sickly yellow, putrid, low and throaty like a hunter who had found a prime specimen– echoed hauntingly through his ears as the rough coil of rope began to claw at his skin. He knew that laugh would be branded forever as it seared into his mind, Arthur's world turning black and leaving his physical body prone and prostrate to what evil may have come.

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Francis approached the house, a cheerful hop in his gait. A joyful smile was plastered across his face as he ascended the few steps to the front door, a bottle of wine in one hand while the other grasped a tin of Arthur's favorite tea, a sort of celebration present for their long awaited reunion. It seemed to have been a lifetime ago that France had last been here, feeling even longer since his blue eyes saw those shimmering green. The weather promised happy things to come, warm and inviting, as though nature itself was anxiously waiting their reuniting. His longing heart fluttered in both nervousness and excitement.

Finally reaching the door, Francis paused to straighten out his shirt and tuck the tin behind his back. Rapping his knuckles against the door, he waited for his beloved _Angleterre_ to come to him again. When moments passed by with no word or sight from the blonde haired nation, Francis tried again before stepping forward to listen for a dull response. Instead, the sound of the TV greeted him. "Must be too loud to hear me," Francis muttered, in too good a mood to even be irked. Shifting everything in his arms, he merely reached into his pocket and pulled out his own key.

"Mon Cher, I'm here," he called out as the door swung open. Once more he was met with silence. Edging the door shut with his foot, he tossed his keys down on the side table, waiting for any sign of life. "Arthur?" Moving into the living room, he shut of the TV, calling again softly for his lover. Trying the kitchen, ocean eyes widened as he took in the sight before him. Time seemed to slow down, every breath getting harder to take, the color of the world dulling before his eyes. The wine bottle shattered on the floor, joining the still steaming tea and shattered cup. His eyes darted to the open back door, before soaring over everything to look outside for any sign of his England. Drag marks screamed at him as to what had happened here. A picture of Arthur's last TV appearance when he was standing next to the prime minister was taped to the glass door. FAGGOT was written in blood red letters across his face.

Snatching the paper off the door, his recent conversations with Arthur over the telephone about the serial killer that was wreaking havoc on his country ran through his mind. Everything was slowly setting into place. Taking off towards the road, France hoped that he could catch a glimpse of the fiend that had taken Arthur. Finding the road empty, he stood at a lose, unsure of what to do. Arthur was gone! Someone had taken him! Fear and helplessness welled up within him. He looked down at the paper in his hand, fist clenching around it and eyes hardening to cold sapphires. Someone had taken his _Angleterre_ and now someone was going to die.

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His body ached, too stiff and unnatural for sleep. Arthur found his world to be as black as pitch as he slowly lumbered from unnatural rest. The only way he knew he had his eyes open was because he could feel the air drying them, watering and forcing him to blink as he stayed submerged in the inky black sea. With a twitch, England could still feel the coils of rope bound around him, tightly imprisoning his ankles, thighs, arms and chest, and wrists. Breathing felt difficult as he lay awkwardly on his stomach, prone to whatever was lurking in the dark, but there was nothing he could do with his body still unresponsive to his panicked thoughts.

Cheek pressed against the cold ground of what felt like cement, Arthur simply tried to quiet his breathing and try to discern if anything else was lurking close by. The air smelled like must, like old fabric and stored wood. He shut his eyes, though it changed nothing and instead unlocked the vision of the black humanoid slithering out of the confines of his own home and taking him.

He knew it wasn't just any kidnapping case. Not this thing.

Arthur would be lucky if he was just killed.

Terrified thoughts whirled viciously though his consciousness, forming horrific postulates and questions. He wondered if there had been any damage from the drug. Maybe he was in fact blind? After letting his breathing quell back to a normal rhythm, chastising himself for letting panic triumphing over him, he noted that he was not gagged or blindfolded. Apparently his kidnapper had no worries for Arthur being heard or seeing anything.

A tingling began to settle into his bones, making him feel weary and timid. The drug was wearing off as he listened to his breaths in silence, the movement coming back to his fingers and toes. Time was measured by the low draughts of air now, and exhales that ghosted along the floor. The headache had not gone, rather, it had joined each frantic and quivering beat of his heart. A half hour since he had awoken, he was able to worm his way up off the ground and come to a sitting position. His body was now so weak that it made him pant.

Hazily, England glanced around, still seeing nothing but a black canvas. The sea of darkness was getting to him slowly, caressing his mind with feverish dark thoughts. Had he heard a voice? A whisper of a breath? Surely that had been a creak of wood above him. Panic began to sink its terrible claws into him, making his breathing short and rapid. The longer Arthur sat there; unable to move in the dark, the more he began to hear and to see.

Every time he felt something, the prickle of skin whispered that it wasn't his mind. Rationality, a thread so quickly beginning to fray countered and objected in a tinny voice. He was alone in the room, for better or for worse, but every slow, drawn out second was setting his patience at edge and Arthur's mind into overdrive. Panic and fear were breading, mutilating all remnants of calm he had been trying to grasp to.

No utterance could calm him now, the icy lance of true fear having pierced his heart. No memory of horrible days, moments or years could bring rest. Nothing. Not wars, not deaths, not sickness. His head arched back as Arthur collapsed to the floor, bindings forcing his limbs to burn angrily in the need to move.

England's head now lay on the hard floor, looking up to what he assumed would be the ceiling. A trickle of a memory came to him, the brush of a feathered wing stirring hope. Francis' words rolled over him, out speaking and taming the panicked gurgle in the back of his thoughts.

_Don't show them fear, Angleterre, all it will do is give them power over you_.

Wide unseeing eyes watched the patterns his retinas burned into the black abyss. Those words had been uttered so long ago, and for a situation so far from this. But the thought of his voice was comforting enough and with strength evoked once more, he tried to sit up again to look for an escape.

A low creak began to saturate the room, filling England with terror as he stared at the source, eyes watering from the sudden brilliant light emitted. A shadowed human form was illuminated and Arthur felt the hairs on his arm and neck raise in warning. A dark and primal survivalist warning.

Slowly and meticulously, the figure descended the stairs, step after step creaks echoing loudly in the otherwise silent room. The stale air was heavy, thick with age and past events. Pausing as if he could hear the screams of his past victims resonate off the cold walls, be let out a pleased sigh before continuing again. This place held such fond memories as of late, some place that would be his and his alone. The time seemed to pass by painstakingly slow, until the featureless shadowy figure made it to where Arthur lay. All light was left behind him, making him more a phantom of darkness than anything else. "Finally awake are we, Mr. Kirkland. Good," a smooth voice sung to him.

Arthur bristled at the nearly pleasant voice being used on him. "What the bloody fuck do you want?" he snapped, nearly spitting in the anger stemmed from raw fear gurgling through his veins. Each beat of his heart quickened as he tried to see just who he was dealing with, and yet the man stayed dark. The situation was becoming dire, and he knew it.

Tsking comically at Arthur's comment, moving to shaking his head as the shadow of his shoulders shook with suppressed laughter, the assailant merely loomed closer. "Such language, though I shouldn't be surprised coming from a disgusting spawn of Satan like you." The figure paused, when his voice came again, it had lost that smoothing tongue, gaining something darker. "To think that YOU would be one of THEM," he growled, voice harsh. The mere thought of it was unsettling. So they had penetrated further into government than he had realized. His fist began shaking softly as he tried to push the disgust away, while pushing away his calculating, empty persona with it. The dark mass of the figure began pacing back and forth, losing almost all of the chilling authority and conniving presence. The man no longer stood straight, now hunched over and head down, mumbling low words that were drowned out by the sounds of the boot steps.

Them? Arthur's breath caught in this throat swiftly, and he blinked against the darkness that swallowed them. It was starting to become easier to make out the shape of his assailant. He was a man, that much he knew. He felt sick to his stomach as Arthur realized it was one of his own men that was attacking him and his shoulders jolted down for a moment. What did he mean by 'them'? Had his secret as a nation been thrown? England stilled, and then took a soft breath to calm his fears. He had to be rational– he would get out of this. "I have no idea what you're talking about," Arthur bit caustically and truthfully at the man. "I don't even know what the fuck you're on."

The words of denial made Arthur's keeper stop in his track. Sudden harsh steps approached the bound man, stilling only a few feet away. The mass reached up and snatched the dangling chain to click on the only light in the dark basement. He needed to see this…thing's face, to see the fear and horror. The blinding light revealed a clean cut, below average looking man. He had one of those faces that you wouldn't remember, that just blends into the crowd. Dull brown hair matched the bland brown, which looked almost like cold metal, eyes staring down at him. "You wouldn't know me! I would never associate with such a vile wretch as yourself! You and your kind are like a poison in this world, damnation of God's divine rule! I have been sent on a mission from God to eradicate your abominations," he spat, leaning in closer to his captive's face. Rage raced through him, when the thing before him had the nerve to look him in the eye. He would pay for that, very soon.

Arthur winced at the sudden change of light, but stared evenly at his attacker. Those eyes…he blinked and defiantly held his chin up as he listened to the putrid garble that fell from his attacker's lips. "Abominations?" he asked, voice slightly low in confusion. Just what the hell was this man's problem? Suddenly, he realized that he could see more than just his captor's eyes, he wasn't wearing a mask. That wasn't good, that really was not good. Arthur allowed his green eyes to flicker away, noting the rage swelling in those shallow and soulless brown eyes, looking for something to tell him where he was or something to give his bearings. The light was too weak though, and he though he saw the nebulous outline of stacked chairs. "I still don't know what you are talking about. You must be mistaken…" England darted a glance around again– desperate to get away from this man. The hairs on the back of his neck were raised in warning and Arthur suppressed a shiver that tried to claw down his spine.

A smack suddenly rings out in the deathly quiet room, the brown haired man pulling his hand back from striking England across the face. "How dare you suggest such a thing!" he roared, bending down closer, eyes narrowing in malice and hatred. A sneer crossed his face as he watched his captive sprawled across the floor, helpless and weak. "My mission is divine! My mission is blessed by God. I make no mistakes. I know what you really are, just as God does!"

The smack had startled Arthur and his face pressed against the cold concrete as he swore in silence. Head spinning, Arthur forced himself to sit back up again– he would not simply be prone and helpless! Arthur glared, eyes sharp in fear and defiance. "Then what am I?" he said lowly, hoping his voice sounded strong and intimidating rather than the weak and shaky feeling that quelled through his body. He wasn't Alfred– he couldn't simply tear out of these bindings. Coming to the conclusion as he kept his eyes upon the man, he despairingly abandoned the hope of an easy escape. Rubbing his wrist slowly, the island nation began to slowly try to get out of the heavy rope that bound him.

A snarl pulled up the corner of his mouth, losing any once of charisma that he previously had. "A homosexual," he spat out, as though the term burned his tongue. He continued his pacing, running a hand through his hair, making it stand up in unruly tuffs. Going back to mumbling what sounded like prayers and psalms before stopping and moving back to his captive again. "You're a mockery to God's immaculate design!"

Green eyes flickered warily in the putrid light. The man was agitated now and a slick roiling filled Arthur's stomach, squelching and making him feel sick. But with that nausea came a burning anger that slowly flickered back to life and crept heatedly through his veins. England narrowed his eyes, teeth grating lividly. "Do not accuse a man for no reason," he said, fake calm pulsing through his words as he watched the man suddenly still, "when he has done you no harm." The dart of his tongue whetted dry chapped lips in nervous fear. Anger reverberated through his syllables as he muttered, "Proverbs, I believe."

Within a breath, the brown haired man lunged at him, eyes dark in pure rage. Furry coursed hotly through his veins, as his fists and feet struck at the helpless man before him. The sounds of each blow only fuelled his anger; each gasp of air from his captive sent a shiver throughout his body. "NO HARM!" Blood spattered across the ground, some spurted upon the walls. A wet crack reached his ears as he drove a heel kick into the exposed ribcage. "You have no idea the kind of harm you FAGGOTS have brought to the world, making society rot from the inside out!" He kicked harder, resisting the urge to just stomp at the pristine throat, pale and sculpted. Growling again, he gave a blow to Arthur's head. He paused when he heard Arthur gasping for breath, wet hacks bringing up pools of blood. Control began to take over once again as he moved to calm his own panting breaths. He couldn't kill the homo, pausing to smirk. Not just yet.

Suddenly, his cool demeanor returned. He ran a calm hand through his hair, smoothing it out once again. His eyes cooled into a dangerous calm, the emptiness leaving them, only to be filled with a distant joy. "You will die for your existence, for it slanders God himself." He stalked closer, bending down till he was at Arthur's level, a pleased smirk making its way onto his face. He breathing became quick again, this time from excitement. This is what he was born to do, destined to do. "It shall be slow and painful. You will repent and then God will judge whatever is left of your soul."

Fuck. That had fucking hurt, Arthur thought dimly as he spat a wad of blood down to the floor and curled slowly into himself. He bowed his head for a moment, trying to get the world to stop spinning and doubling. It hurt to breathe now and the man knew without a second thought that his ribs had broken. England could already imagine the skin becoming a screaming red and frightened blue. The rope rubbed at his wrists and ankles, making them feel raw and swollen as he tried to stop gasping for air. Dark blood trickled down his chin and absinthe eyes watched the droplets paint abstract flowers on the ground. Taking a long, gurgled breath of air, nearly choking from the pain, Arthur shut his eyes and thought briefly of his lover. At least he wasn't here. ...Maybe Francis would have been tragically trapped in this hell too. Arthur wondered if he knew he was gone– wondered if he was looking for him. The bonds seemed to pull him back into reality as he took another ragged breath, hitching as the pain leapt out and stabbed all over. There would be no escape. Not now. Arthur tried to prepare himself for whatever hell he had been thrust into. He was frightened, but he wasn't about to show this damn bastard.

The smooth voice had returned, his laugh flowing like rich chocolate. One of his hands came to rest on Arthur's back, sugary and soft as he began to caress him. The fabric of his shirt was stained with his captive's sweet blood, excitement turning in his stomach, twisting into something warm and electric. "I'll make you wish you were never born," he hummed, leaning closer to his blonde's ear. He chuckled again as his hot breath ghosting over the pale skin making his captive shake in fear, ecstasy making his movements smooth.

Arthur couldn't look at him as he heard the change of voice, the change from primal anger to something cloying and more twisted and darker than humanity should ever be able to conjure. With a jerk, Arthur tried to pull away from the almost caressing touches of his assailant. His breathing increased, turning jagged and burning with each gulp of the moldy air. Just try it, Arthur growled internally, jerking away and trying to kick at the plain man. Just try it. He writhed, head falling back and cracking onto the cement as a hand was placed heavily on his broken rib. It burned and ached. He wanted to scream but Arthur would never. Never give. He remained silent, staring at the man while panting and mind whipping through ever possible and whimsical idea for escape or defense. The fingers were deftly trailing down.

The religious jargon disappeared completely, his voice rolling again in the deep, flowing tones. A dastardly smirk made its way onto his face as he felt his captive shudder and struggle like a rabbit caught in a snare. "Still have some fight in you I see," he hummed after a chuckle. Arthur's captor pulled back, regarding him with calm and calculating eyes. "Let's see if we can't change that, shall we." Dipping his hand into his pocket, he pulled out a pre-filled syringe. Yanking off the top that covered the needle with his teeth, he quickly leant down and plunged into the soft, meaty flesh of Arthur's neck. Quickly ejecting the clear liquid into the man before him, he pulled back and just watched as the drug took effect. Slowly, he felt the fight leak out of the man, the drug doing well to paralyze him. "There now," he sung, tossing the needle and cap aside. Leaning forward again, he nuzzled against his captive's ear. "Don't worry," he said throatily. His hands began to roam again, stroking and caressing every inch he could reach. "You'll be awake to enjoy every second of it."

The drowsiness hit Arthur like a wave, and with the loss of motion came mind numbing fear as reality finally hit him. The trashes were becoming slower and weaker as the drug took effect, letting his body fall limp and pliant, and yet in horror he realized he could still feel every nerve buzzing and every sickening touch the man placed on him. Slowly, ever so slowly despite the frantic screams in his mind, his limbs slackened towards numb defeat. The world turned nebulous, light burning black at the edges of his vision while he choked out a garbled cry of helplessness. Hands slithered down his back and every touch, each increasingly bolder than the last, felt like molten iron against his skin even through the fabric. Green eyes turned upwards in a heaven sent plea as the hands came to a pause at the belt on his pants. The deranged grin on his captors face was seared into his mind as a low chuckle echoed though the dank room.

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Well then...that was my first chapter. Don't worry, this will turn out better in later chapters, I hope. I just realized that I watch way too much Law and Order and Criminal Minds _;

Anyway, reviews would be awesome so I know I'm on the write track! Thanks!


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys! Sorry about taking so long to post. Finals, then holidays, then work and then a horrible case of writers block. Thank you to everyone that reviewed! It was awesome to see how many people liked one of my stories! Anyway, here's the next chapter, inspired to due to the endless Criminal Minds marathons that have been on TV. One of my favorite characters makes a guest appearance, though this will probably be the only time he shows up since it's not a cross over. Thanks again!

^KageBecks27^

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_How could I have let this happen? How could I have let this Fou take my Angleterre! _ Rage and guilt battled for dominance, whirling like a hurricane inside. Back and forth. Rising and falling. Shifting and boiling. _I should have been there sooner!_ Lithe fingers clutched his beloved's white silk scarf, something Francis had rescued from Arthur's house, praying for death of that _salaud_. Sapphire eyes became jaded and sharp as rage won out. The same lithe fingers that had once lovingly caressed Arthur's cheek, had gently intertwined with his lover's hands, that now cradled the soft fabric that reminded him so much of Arthur's creamy complexion— he now dreamed about wrapping them around this kidnapper's neck until the life slowly seeping out of him. Francis' entire face smoothed into a mask of sculpted marble, icy and unforgiving. He would find this man, before the police did, and he would make sure _nothing_ was left for them to find.

"Mr. Bonnefoy?"

Reality rushed back to Francis— ringing phones, shuffling papers, shouting criminals and slamming doors roaring to full volume. Stale coffee and body odor assaulted his nose as the atmosphere of the precinct permeated France's self imposed isolation. Hard sapphire drifted away from the silk scarf clutched in a death grip to meet the tired gray eyes of the Inspector before him.

"Mr. Bonnefoy, my name is Inspector Jones. I'm working on Mr. Kirkland's disappearance," the tired voice came. "I need to ask you a few more questions."

"Of course," Francis replied, sitting up straighter in the chair he had been provided.

"Right," huffed Jones before plopping down in a chair opposite of him. "Alright, I'm going to be straight forward Mr. Bonnefoy. Have you heard of the recent murders that have been taking place?" He waited for a nod before moving on, turning to glance at the white board covered with pictures of the victims, five while they were alive and the gruesome pictures of how they were found. Gray and blue eyes watched as Arthur's picture was placed among them with a question mark next to his solemn face. "We are still trying to figure out if it is connected to Mr. Kirkland's disappearance. The only thing is, no one can say for certain why he was taken. All of the past victims have been…have had… certain tastes in relationships. Were you aware if…"

"No," Francis replied quickly, but sternly. Inside he flinched. Arthur and he were lovers, had loved each other longer than either would care to admit. Arthur was fickle though. He wasn't one to let others know of his personnel life, he was a true gentleman in that way. Thus, his preference was not something he broadcasted.

The Inspector looked startled for the first time since Francis had seen him. He cleared his throat, reigning himself back in. "A-are you sure? This serial killer targets…"

"Inspector Jones, if you were to observe most of the people in our occupation you could make the same mistake. In our line of work, most of our associates are men and we work long hours. There has been more than one occasion where I have stayed over my colleagues' home while working on a new policy or treaty. If not then we leave at all hours of the night and early morning." Francis had barely even batted an eye. "Work barely leaves any time for solid friendships, never mind relationships. You become friends with those you work with, even if you hated each other at one point. Arthur and I are an ideal example of that."

Jones stared him down, letting everything sink in. This didn't fit the serial killer's usual signature. Everything else was in place; abducted from home, same strain of drug used to render them unconscious, no forced entry… but a crucial piece was missing. "Mr. Bonnefoy, there is a chance this is not the same killer. Even if this is a case of mistaken identity, a key piece of M.O. is missing. The killer leaves a picture of his victim with a message on it. Did you see anything when you entered Mr. Kirkland's home?"

"No," Francis replied. He fought to keep his tone even and his posture relaxed. His hand snuck into his pocket where the picture resided. The crumbled wad was nearly completely ruined from being torn open and crushed repeatedly. It was Francis' only connection to the man who had taken his Arthur, and he wasn't about to give that up. His jaw ached as he struggled to keep it from clenching and lips pulling back in a snarl. He wanted to be out on streets, hunting this monster down like the worthless beast he was, but he couldn't. Francis had no idea where to start looking. He wasn't home where he could get any lab he wished to go over Arthur's place with a fine tooth comb. He'd have to do it on his own, not that he'd have it any other way once he got his hands on this _démon_. As to what happened after he found the man…

well, diplomatic immunity would take care of the rest.

"Are you sure," Inspector Jones pressed, leaning forward so his forearms rested on his knees. "This is very important. If there's anything you could tell us, it might help us discern whether this is indeed the serial killer or a copy cat. Now think back, do you remember anything at all?"

Francis stared at Jones, trying hard to make it look like he was thinking. After calming his boiling blood, he brought his jaded stare to gaze at him. "No, I'm sorry." The exhausted look in Jones' eyes made him reconsider his path. "Wait, now that I think of it, there might have been footsteps. Almost like someone was running away." Continuing to meet his gaze, he forced some hopeful curiosity into his voice. "Do you think that could have been him?"

A new spark glinted in the Inspector's eye. "Did you hear a vehicle drive away? Any voices?"

"_Non_. It must have been covered up when I dropped the wine bottle I brought to celebrate a business deal going through."

"Hmmm, it's possible then," Jones muttered before sitting upright in his chair. He glanced around as more officers started filing into the room and taking up positions around the white board. "They're already doing the profile," he whispered to himself before bringing himself back to his witness. "I want to thank you for your time Mr. Bonnefoy. If I may, we have to ask that you stay in the country incase we have more questions."

"Of course," Francis assured while ignoring some of the glances he was getting from the officers now filling the squad room. "I don't plan to go anywhere until Arthur is found and this _Fou_ is apprehended." He moved to stand, making sure the picture still concealed in his pocket didn't make any noise.

"S-sure," Jones replied, slightly off set by the French slur as he stood with him. He reached out and placed a reassuring hand on the French diplomat's shoulder. "Don't worry Mr. Bonnefoy. We'll catch the man who did this."

"_Merci __Inspecteur _Jones," Francis said while resisting the urge to brush the hand away. "I have no doubt that you will." _But not after I'm through with him first._ He slowly walked out of room, dodging around the officers while waiting for them to start up with the "profiling" as the good inspector had put it. Hearing nothing, he ducked around the corner and waited, leaning up against the wall and looking very much like he was staring off into space in distressed thought. Any hint on where to start looking would help.

"Alright gents, listen up. Mr. Reid is the specialist that the FBI sent over from their Behavioral Analysis Unit. He's going to be helping us with a profile of our killer and give us an idea where to start looking."

"It's Doctor Reid actually," a young voice chirped back.

"Right, right. My apologies **Doctor** Reid," the stern voice replied, trying to keep calm.

"It's alright, happens more than you think," the voice that belonged to the Yank came back before he cleared his throat. "Now, according to the patterns and victimology of his targets, you're looking for a male in his middle twenties to late thirties. He's between 5'10 and 6 feet, approximately 1.8 to 1.82 meters tall. Footprint indentations taken from multiply crime scenes places the Unsub somewhere are 160lbs."

"Unsub?"

"Unidentified Subject. Now this Unsub will have an average build, but is strong since he must carry his victims who themselves have a strong build. Now the fact that he uses a sedative to incapacitate his targets suggests that he has entered the house previous to their capture. He likes to watch them and most likely approaches them so he is last thing they see before they fall unconscious."

"So he hides while the drug knocks them out. Sounds like a coward to me."

"While that may seem the case, let's not forget that the Unsub decides to strike in broad daylight, as if he has no fear of being caught. He even leaves pictures to taunt the police and further victimize his targets. This suggests a highly organized killer, someone who does extensive surveillance of not only his victims but also the neighborhoods they live in." A pause and then the sound as Dr. Reid pointed at some of the pictures. "The aggression and violence on the bodies of the victims appears to be chaotic and actually impulsive in nature."

"So are we looking for a team then?"

"Unlikely, while there is a discernable difference in behavior; it points more to a multi-personality disorder than two people. So be on the look out for suspects with a history of mental health problems. Now the fact that the men are kept for three days and the burns on their arms and legs suggests a religious influence."

"So a religious wanker trying to purge the city of the homosexuals," an older voice chimed in.

"Well yes and no. The sexual nature of the violence suggests something deeper. The Unsub himself is most likely homosexual but was brought up in a strict religious household. He would have been taught that his urges and feels were wrong and even brought on by the devil. This would lead him to take out his rage on openly gay men. By killing these men, he is trying to kill that part of himself."

"But what about Mr. Kirkland? Does that mean that he was gay?"

"Mr. Bonnefoy doesn't seem to think so. And there is no evidence that he is. No one has seen him out on a date or have any men over to his house other than business associates and, again, Mr. Bonnefoy has offered other explanations," the voice of Inspector Jones rang clear above all others. "Even with some missing pieces, the evidence doesn't point to a copy cat. The frog probably scared the bastard off."

"It's highly possible…" Reid's voice droned on, but Francis had heard all he need. He had a few ideas of where to start his search, but he had to do a bit of shopping first. Striding out of the precinct with a threatening air, eyes like stone. Dark skies swirled overhead, threatening with an impending storm.

* * *

The sound of black light weight combat boots echoed on the cold streets of London, a cold mist hanging in the air. Francis' hands were shoved deep within the pocket of his black overcoat, the collar turned up to keep away straying eyes. A black turtleneck sweater hugged his taunt frame as his legs carried him down another back alley. A few shady characters stalked around the corners, watching him with mild interest. It was not everyday that they saw such a sight, but his murderous aura did better keeping them at bay better than the revolver tucked in the back of his navy jeans. His once jovial face hardened gravely, shinning eyes cold like ice and as unforgiving. They were half covered by tinted sunglass worn low on his nose.

The sky smelled of rain, air electrified with soon to strike lightning. The weatherman had called it a sudden low system from some oceanic storm, but Francis knew better. With Arthur gone, the country would start to deteriorate, weather would turn bad and natural disasters would strike. It wouldn't take long for the economy to fail and recession to strike. The time clock was ticking: according to the police the killer kept his captives for 72hours. Arthur was taken 6 hours ago.

The sound of his phone ringing suddenly ripped through the silence, making a man not far from Francis start and spill his coffee. Without braking stride, France flipped the phone open. "Bonnefoy," he answered, voice even.

"Francis! God, we just heard the news. It's all over BBC and CNN now," America's urgent voice came over the phone. It sounded like he was running.

"America," Francis replied. "What are the reports saying?"

There was a pause as it sounded like Alfred was talking to someone else. "Shit, just–Damn. The Prime Minister's aide has been reported missing. Uh...house broken into during the afternoon...Afternoon! Francis! Jeeze, what the hell happened? They aren't saying anything else!"

"They probably don't know anything else," Francis reasoned. "Arthur's missing, kidnapped by a serial killer."

"WHAT!" Alfred's voice broke as he started to panic. "Shit shit shit! Ah fu- Just...Just hold on Francis. Mattie and I are gonna be there as soon as we can. We'll get Arthur back. Come on Mattie, the plane's waiting for us!"

"I'll get him back Alfred," Francis shot back as he stopped in front of another house marked over with police tape. An earlier victim's home. "Just stay out of the way."

"W-what? Francis, what's with you? I know this has to be hard on you. You and Arthur are together but I've never heard you sound like this before."

"No one takes my _Angleterre_ away from me," Francis growled into the phone.

"Look, Francis, you're scaring me a bit. Just calm down alright, Matt and I are boarding now. We'll be there in six hours." Another heavy pause took over the line. "I know you're pissed, and I know you think you know how to handle this, but we're dealing with mortals here. We can't afford to treat them the same way we do each other."

"I realize this Alfred." Francis ducked around back of the house, looking for someway to get inside. No doubt the police would have locked the doors and windows, but he had to double check nothing was wired to an alarm. Another hand snuck into his inner pocket, pulling out his lock picking kit.

"I don't think you do, Francis," Alfred snapped back.

"Alfred, there is something you don't realize. Over the centuries, I have watched mortals destroy everything around them. I refuse to let this happen to Arthur."

"Fine, just don't do anything stupid alright. Matt says he'll never forgive you if you do something stupid."

"I'm not going to sit around and do nothing America. I'm going to find him."

"Damn it Francis! We're dealing with a serial killer— someone who hunts people for some sick and twisted fun!" Alfred shouted into this phone. "We don't know what he's capable of!"

A grim and somber smile found its way onto Francis' face as he pulled out his first tool. "I have a feeling no one knows what I'm capable of, America." Francis snapped the phone shut before turning his attention to the lock.

* * *

Alfred stared at his phone with a look of anger and horror on his face. Matt gazed at him with confusion. "Alfred, what's going on?"

"I'm not sure Mattie, but I don't like it. We've never dealt with him when he's like this before." He paused, before shifting through his phone with a sigh.

"Who are you calling?"

"Probably the only person who could handle Francis when he like this, other than Arthur." He brought the phone up to his ear. "Russia."

* * *

Thanks again guys! I promise to try and get the next chapter out sooner. Please enjoy and review ^_^


	3. Chapter 3

Hey guys...long time no see. I'm am thoroughly disappointed in myself about how long this took to post. Things have gotten in the way and this story honestly almost faded into the background. Thanks to all those that reviewed, you really kept me going. With some helpful prodding from my dear friend Chris_Remmey, this chapter is finally finished. I hope you like it, I certainly do!

**WARNING! **This chapter contains explicit scenes of torture. You have been warned. RATING FOR THIS CHAPTER IS **M**

* * *

**Blood of a Lamb, Roar of a Lion**

**Chapter 3**

Dust swirled in the dark air as Francis made his way around the small flat, careful not to disturb anything. A sign of a slight struggle lingered about what he assumed was the living room. Stains on the pale carpet were illuminated into life by the headlights as a car passed by, tires squealing on the wet ground. Rain pelted against the window, dripping off the bright yellow police tape that covered the frame like some old spider web.

He toed around the room carefully, shades low on his nose, eyes cold and calculating. France was cautious not to disturb anything, just as he had at the first three houses he had been to. Keen eyes glanced over the scene before him, taking in every detail. There was nothing that really connected all the victims he had seen so far. Different hair color, body type, upbringing, and background. From what he could tell, they were different people, living very different lives. The only connection he could see was their sexual orientation, but even then some had still been in the closet, or so it seemed. Growling in frustration, Francis continued to stalk about the room, brows knit together. Catching a picture out of the corner of his eye, he paused in mid-stride.

Tugging two more pictures out of his coat pocket, he took the picture frame off of the wall. Discarding the frame on the worn buffet before pulling out the back and snatching the picture, he laid it out on the hard wood. The picture was of four guys, leaning over each other with drinks in their hand. Smiles were plastered over their faces, liquid courage making the mood light. It wasn't them that he cared about; he saw something in the background that peeked his interest.

Stacking the pictures on top of each other, faces buried beneath all of them, a glowing symbol began to form. Neon lights started stringing together, falling into place like a puzzle. The insignia was far from complete, but Francis knew it well enough. Separating the pictures, he saw the faces of the first three victims. He didn't find pictures of the others in the bar, possibly where the…what had the American had called them…the unsub had started hunting. It would make sense. The first victim was sloppily taken care of, truly the unsub's first. Disorganized killers often killed close to home, an area that they knew well. So he must know this bar, which meant there might be someone who knew the unsub there.

Tucking all the pictures into his pocket, Francis hung the picture back onto the wall, his black leather gloves squeaking with the movement. The Frenchman found himself staring into the eyes of a picture of the past homeowner. His stare was eerie, even though the man was smiling, as though he knew Francis was in his house. Taking that picture off the wall as well, his blue eyes continued to flit about the picture. He couldn't explain it; everything else about the man in the picture now seemed flat. He found it the same with every picture he saw of someone who had passed, as though the spirit behind it had left as well, whatever part of the soul the image had captured had disappeared.

Francis slammed the picture down, with nearly enough force to shatter the glass. Flipping open his wallet, he carefully pulled out a worn picture of his _Angleterre_ smiling brightly. It was still brimming with life, the piece of Arthur still there. His love was still alive. Running his gloved finger over the joyous face, an ache reached his heart. Yes Arthur was alive, but he was in pain. A nearby lightning strike cast a harsh blast of light around the room, making England's face look hollow.

A lot of pain.

France stormed towards the door, uncaring if he disturbed anything at this point. He had his lead, that's all he cared about at this point. He would see where this would take him, if anyone in the bar would remember someone who fit the profile. "I'm one step closer to finding you, you sick _salaud_." Stepping out into the raining night, Francis pushed his shades upright, turning his collar up against the cold shower. Pausing, he looked once more at the faded picture, hard eyes softening for a fleeting heart beat. "_Je __suis __venue __pour __tu, __mon __amour. __Je __suis __venue.__"_

* * *

Ice clinked in his glass, eyes watching the swirling clear liquid. The club was noisy, even on a slow night like this music was roaring. Men crowded the dance floor, some couples, more singles trying to find their soul mates or a good screw amongst the swaying bodies and swirling music. At least a handful of each sect of the gay community was present; bears, twinks, circuit boys, gay-listers, show queens. A few teens and men stuck to the walls, looking uncomfortable and unsure. Probably their first time coming out to such a place, testing the waters, seeing if they could see find themselves in such a world. That was the downside to such an establishment; The Cock Pit was a popular and well-known gay club, bringing with its reputation many new faces. Francis could only hope that the bar keeper had a good memory. His ocean eyes traced the movements of the man behind the bar as he chatted it up with another man, waiting for a moment to call him over.

A hand fell heavily onto his shoulder, giving it a soft caress. "Had a bad day, sweetie? I can make you forget all about it." His movement behind Francis and the tone of the voice gave the impression of some younger, cocky man, taking his standoffish aura as a challenge. Glancing out of the corner of his eye, the Frenchman could see more than a few eyes fall upon him, those that had been smart enough to stay away watching to see what would happen. Picking up the glass, Francis' studied it before turning his head only slightly, allowing only a sliver of his gaze to meet the stranger. The man recoiled, stumbling and yanking his hand back as if burned. Normally the nation would politely send the young man away with a smile and kind words, or perhaps engage in light conversation. However, the joyous man was gone, stolen when his _Angleterre_ had been stolen from him.

"Run along," Francis said softly, letting his eyes trail down to the man's package, "Little one."

Watching the man retreat, his path making a swirl in the smoke that hung heavily in this place, Francis turned back to his gin. Staring at his own reflection in the rippling drink for what felt like eternity before downing it. He set the glass down on the bar with a soft clink, listening to the pulse of the harsh bass of the dance music, eyes half closed behind the ever-present shades perched on his nose. The sharp smell of bodies and pheromones in the air did nothing to pierce through his cold shell. This was business, he could afford no distractions, not that this placed offered many.

"Don't mind Johnny, he's full of himself," a voice called over the music. Francis looked up, seeing the bartending stereotypically cleaning a glass with a rag, a smirk on his face. "Though I guess I should thank ya, maybe the bastard won't be so cocky next time." His Scottish drawl no doubt usually added to his charm. He was young, though in comparison everyone was young to the Frenchman.

"He's young," Francis muttered back, looking down at his empty glass. As if that could be the simple answer to everything.

The bartender noticed and placed the tumbler he was cleaning down on the bar top, draping the cloth over his shoulder. "You want another? Your first one's on me."

"That's kind of you, but actually I was hoping if you could answer some questions for me." Blue eyes shifted from the swirling the ice to the man before him. He was stock still, eyes narrowed slightly and wary, pinned underneath the threatening gaze. No doubt more than a few of the upstanding police force had come into this place looking for someone. "I'm not a bobbie or a copper or what ever you call them here, just want to find out about someone." They locked eyes, oblivious to the rest of the club. The noise, the patrons all faded away as a battle of wills took place silently in one of the humming building's forgotten corners. After a moment he looked away from Francis' steely gaze, perturbed by the age and knowing that they held. Taking that as a yes, he leaned closer. "Has anyone come in here that doesn't belong, someone new who maybe came here at most a few times? Sticks to the wall, probably seems ashamed to be here yet can't take his eyes away?"

"Sorry friend, but I don't know if ye noticed but we get a lot of those in here."

"He may have avoided contact with anyone, or if someone did approach him he would begin spouting religious passages or prayer, perhaps even turn violent," Francis replied quickly yet evenly, pressing forward. Someone like that wouldn't be easily forgotten, even in a melting pot like this.

The man paused, brows knitting together in deep thought. Suddenly his eyes widened. "Aye! There was a Sassanack a few months back, creepy fellow. Sat where you're sitting actually, worn jeans and a hood pulled over his face. Shifty eyes, couldn't see much else. Mainly just dingyed him for the entire night. He was quiet until my boy-o Tommy went and had a word with him, trying to lighten him up. Boy went crazy, started ranting about the Lord's furry and hell. Crazy Sassnack, wasn't right in the head."

"Do you remember anything else about him, what he looked like? Anything that might tell which part of town he was from?"

"I already told you all I know about 'im," his drawl thickening the more he spoke. He took up to cleaning the bar top, hands itching to do something under the cold gaze of the man before him, eyes that had seen too much. "If ya want to know anything more about 'im you should ask Tommy." Pausing in his work, he let his eyes scan the crowd, practice gaze able to pierce through the smoke and sea of faces. The scan halted on the back of a head covered in dark brown hair. "That's him there."

As if Tommy could hear them over all of the deafening noise, he turned to meet the bartender's gaze, eyes shifting to look at Francis. Turning quickly around, he began to nudge his way off of the dance floor, battling against the ebb and flow of the swirling of movement. The longer he was trapped the more frantic he became, eyes wide, feeling the heavy weighted gaze of Francis, boring into his back.

"Thanks for the drink," France stood calmly, placing down a bill without looking at the amount. The rest of the club melted away from his awareness, eyes tracing his pray like a well-trained predator, everything minimizing into unfocused blurs and white noise. His movements were graceful, nearly ghost like, as he steadily gained ground. The other occupants served no hindrance, either moving to make way for him as his pressing aura accompanied a soft touch on their shoulder or Francis himself stepping between the natural flow of the dancing, a jungle cat among a herd of fleeing grazers, each movement calculated and sure. Once more, Tommy turned back, making the mistake of locking gaze with the icy cobalt eyes, freezing him as a deer in headlights. Fear, but of what Francis could not tell, pulsed behind the man's eyes.

Tommy began clawing his way out, finally bursting through the wall of people that encircled the very edge of the pulsing crowd. Twisting about as if he had forgotten the way, his feet led him out the door, tripping over his own feet in his urge to escape.

Francis was quick to follow, swinging open the door, leaving the pulsating club behind and stepping into the drizzling night. The streets were quiet, few people milling about in this type of weather and at this time of night, where morning would soon take over. The pounding of an uneven gait reached his ears, head snapping in the direction. Tense muscles sprang into movement, his tread light. Patches of lightness then darkness altered around him as he moved in and out of the halos of light cast by the street lamps. Cool rain stuck to his face, droplets clung to his glasses as he was swallowed by the clean smelling mist. The sound of grating metal resounded in his ears, emanating from an alley a little ways away. Swinging his body, he allowed his flowing jacket to act as a feline's tail, aiding a sharp turn into the dark cavern.

Tommy froze as he saw Francis stand at the mouth of the alley; silhouette a foreboding mass against the blaring glow behind him. His hands still clasped around the top of the fire escape ladder. His breath was ragged, the run and hasty climb had taken much of his strength. A smile stretched over his thin lips at having stopped his pursuer, having pulled up the only bridge that would allow him to reach him. Grinning, he let a thin laugh escape his mouth. He was safe.

A pale hand was placed on the brick worked wall, fingers rubbing together to gauge the amount of water. The porous brick had drunk the water up, but had not yet become slippery. Taking a step back, he looked to Tommy, seeing that previous triumphant smile fade. Francis lashed forward confidently, lifting himself up by planting his boot on the wall before kicking off again. For a moment he was airborne, the wind wrapping around him in an almost warm welcoming embrace. Time slowed down for the instant before he made contact with his targeted destination.

Taking a deep breath he took a moment to organize his thoughts. The weather was changing. The bone biting rain was heavier than usual for this time of year. His Arthur was alive, but in pain, a thought that made his currently hardened heart give a sharp ache. Hands twitched, making his black leather gloves creak ominously. He would find his _Angleterre_ and no one would get in his way. Sapphire eyes narrowed as reality rushed back to him at his noisy landing, metal biting into his hands as grasped onto the railing of the platform where Tommy had once found security.

Blue eyes trailed the fleeing form of Tommy as he scrambled up further, trying to extend the gap between them. Once more he gave chase, floating over stairs with even breaths. His pray disappeared onto the rooftop, slipping over the slick metal. A flash of a tiny smile graced his lips as he steadily, though leisurely, followed up the fire escape. This 'Tommy' was entering his domain. The rooftops were his. His boot crunched against the gravel that covered the roof, watching as the man took his first leap towards the next roof. At least he didn't scream, though by the sound of the landing Tommy was by no means a well-practiced parkourist. Tugging off his gloves, Francis took off at a sprint, diving over the ledge without a second thought, once again embracing the air before tucking in for the roll. Landing back on his feet he let his muscle memory take over as the hunt began.

Tucking and leaping, stretching out as far as his body would reach before twisting his body to come back up running. Gravel crunched and his muscles burned.

_Lâché_

Clangs of metal echoed loudly in the early morning. Bitter rain seeped into his mouth, soaked his hair.

_Passe __muraille_

Strong legs kicked off the brick walls, like a spider to climb to higher heights, hands snagging a wall ledge to heave himself up. A short cut that few would venture to take.

_Saut __de __détente_

His coat billowed out behind him, whipping out a spray of gray water. Soaring and gliding from place to place in a fluid dance.

_Saut __de __fond_

How long they ran he did not know, long enough for sun to struggle to peak out from behind thick clouds. Tommy was holding up longer than he thought, though his movements and landings were becoming rougher and less graceful. He must have dabbled in, what did they call it here… free running to have survived this long. Francis would wager that when the lad took up this…sport, he had not intended to use it as it was originally developed. Parkour's roots were in combat, in survival. It gave his military a vehicle to hunt traitors and threats to his great republic. The mortal seemed to be heading towards lower ground, aiming to get back to the street. It wouldn't save him.

Sticking to the higher route, Francis watched Tommy scamper about like a falcon from above. As the man's souls hit the ground, he took efforts to hide his presence, keeping his shadow from passing over the ground. Gliding over the alleyways with practiced ease, embracing the dark dawn as it fought against the clouds in a loosing battle, the Frenchman steadily calculated his target's expected route. There was something so predictable about frightened animals, years of war making it easy to plot a point to intercept. Seeing Tommy start to slow, exhaustion dragging him down hard, falling into the false sense of security that Francis had laid out for him.

"I have you." The blond haired nation quickly cut to the left, no longer needing to keep his gaze on the fleeing Britton. Instead he tracked his own path, to the hole Tommy would hide himself in. Coming up from a roll into a full sprint, Francis ducked his head as he broke for the other side of the building. Planting his feet to push off, a dull pain seized his leg as his pant leg gave a tug. Ignoring it, he pushed on, taking flight and swinging his arms to maintain his trajectory through the air. His legs acted as shock absorbers, cushioning the fall before body pitching forward in a roll, stray debris falling to the street below.

* * *

A tan trench-coated figure paused in his steps as he felt something other than rain fall down upon his umbrella covered head. Tilting the coverage back, even eyes watched as a flutter of fabric disappeared over the other edge, a flash of gold visible in the early light. Shrugging deeper into his coat, the serene faced man changed his footing, taking off at a quick yet even pace and not allowing the fleeting phantom to leave his sight for too long. A gloved hand pulled at a thick scarf wrapped around his neck, the fabric fluttering behind his body as he vanished around a corner.

* * *

Kneeling on the edge of the building, granite eyes watched as his prey predictably stumbled into the alleyway, pressing his back against the soaked brick. His breath left him in shuddering puffs of white, clothes clung to his soaked body. The exhausted eyes peered around the corners of the buildings, flitting about in every which way but where the dangerous predator lurked. A bitter smirk twisted Francis' lips. They never looked up. He waited till Tommy stepped further back into the dark alley, closing his eyes as he tried to calm his burning lungs, a ghostly chuckle escaped the cracked lips. He heard the roaring metal too late.

Francis pushed off the descending fire escape and landed easily before him, coat unfurled around him, curtain of hair casting a dark shadow over his eyes. Without looking, France caught Tommy as he attempted to flee. Cold hands slammed the squirming body back against the wall. A soft, hollow thud accompanied the air being thrown from his lungs. "No, please!" Tommy yelped, coughing to get his breath back. "Look I can get Toby the money, I swear! I'm good for it!"

"I don't care about money or whoever Toby is," Francis replied back, voice even as if their run over the rooftops had taken nothing out of him. Blue eyes were narrowed, effectively pinning the man as much as his arms were. He waited, watching as the gaze before him widened in confusion and then perhaps even more fear.

"You're…you're the guy on the news, aren't you. The one who took the others!" While the fear grew, the thrashing ceased. "Please, don't kill me. I didn't do anything to you, I-I don't want to die."

Anger flitted behind the nation's gaze. Pulling Tommy away from the wall, he slammed him into another; face the calculating mask once more. Bringing himself mere inches from his victim's startled and dazed eyes he let out a soft growl. "I have some questions for you, and if you answer you will walk out of this alley, do you understand?" He watched Tommy mull it over quickly, paralyzed to do anything else but nod. "There was man that came into the Cock Pit a few months ago. I want you to tell me everything you know about him. He was awkward yet aggressive when you tried to approach him. He started spouting religious jargon."

"I-I'm…I don't remem…" Tommy gasped as he was thrown roughly into a nearby pile of garbage, sending rats and stray cats scurrying away. Once more a steel grip seized his shirt and hauled him back up to meet the slate eyes that would haunt his dreams. "Wait! Please. Ok, yeah, I remember."

"What do you remember?"

"That guy, he was standing in the corner, so I went to see if I could help…" The words fell quickly and harshly from Tommy's mouth, tongue tripping over itself. "…I was like him once. He was cool at first, really calm and actually was attractive. I put my hand on his shoulder and he tweaks. Practically shoves me away before saying how I was a damned wretch and that we were all going to burn in hell." He paused, taking a breath as he licked his lips nervously. "Guy went berserk, like he was a completely different person. So I got myself the hell out of there."

"What did he look like? What kind of clothes was he wearing?" His hands clenched around the material, fists pressing against the thin rib cage with enough force to bruise. "Tell me anything I can use to find him."

A sharp cry left the young man. "He was average looking! Not really memorable. Brown hair, brown eyes. He was wearing jeans and a dark sweatshirt. I don't remember anything else!"

"That's too bad for you," France growled out.

"No no no, wait! There was something. When he was yelling he pulled out a bible. It was old."

"Not good enough." A deadly chill crept into the Frenchman's voice.

"Just wait a second!" The plead was met with a burdened pause. "It was one of those old ones that churches buy in bulk. You know, for the congregation. Had the Church's name on it, St. M something, something like that." His voice quivered as he felt Francis' grip loosen. "It was burned around the edges or something, looked like it had water damage too."

"Do you have any idea how many churches named after a Saint with an M name in London?" That number of churches would take weeks to search and time was not something Francis had. "You're going to have to do better."

"L-look, that's all I know! Please, I swear," Tommy begged, eyes shimmering with not only the rain, but thick tears.

"Let the boy go, Francis," a calm voice called over the Tommy's whimpering, heavily accented.

Releasing a hand, France angled his head towards the mouth of the alley, allowing only a sliver of his face to be seen. "What are you doing here, Ivan?" He regarded the Siberian nation before him, standing with one hand stuffed into the pocket of a billowing trench coat, something more modern than his traditional garb. The pale pink scarf still rested tightly around his neck, kept dry by the black umbrella lofted over his head. Even through the damp air, Francis could track the soft sent of burnt wood and cold winter air that seemed to swirl about Russia.

"Comrade Jones called me. He and Comrade Williams are worried about you." Francis turned his head back to Tommy, watching him glance between himself and the other nation. A plead for help was clear in his eyes and his whimpering increasing along with his shaking.

"They have nothing to worry about. As I've told them, I'm handling this." The Frenchman knew the Russian was on edge, hesitant to approach any further. Russia could sense the dangerous air that pulsed around him, one that made his own pale in comparison.

Lilac eyes watched him carefully. "I can see that." A hint of skepticism and sarcasm lurked in the tone. At the deadpan look, he pulled his gloved hand out of his pocket, looking uneasy. "Come now, I'm sure the _malchick_ has told you all he knows. Release him before you do something you regret, da?"

Dark eyes came to rest on Ivan before turning to search the watery gaze before him. After a few terse moments, Francis pulled Tommy close, the same hard mask in place. "If I find out you have hid something from me, I won't be the one who is sorry." Twisting, he hurled Tommy across the alleyway, showing a hint of his true strength. The Britton landed at Russia's feet, quickly scrambling up and sprinting out of the alley.

Sighing in relief, the Russian turned to watch the young man go, wondering how close Francis was to truly harming the boy. A pressing presence made him spin back, seeing that France had moved to only a few feet away from the Siberian country. The granite eyes were now looking at him, unblinking and wild. Russia tried to pull the serene, child-like smile onto his face as he always did, but found the will to do so escaping him. The gaze was predatory, threatening, petrifying. "How did you find me, Russia?"

"Who else could soar over the rooftops like you, especially at this early hour?" The cold, inky ambience that swirled around the Frenchman seemed to be reaching towards Ivan, too willing to ensnare him in its twisted grasp. A gloved hand moved to pull at his scarf in an attempt to fight the urge to retreat from the smaller country in front of him. To say it was unnerving wouldn't even scratch the surface. The gaze was something he had never seen before, and honestly would happily never see again. Francis regarded him no differently than the man he had had pinned against the brick wall. He was nothing more than an obstacle, something he would rid himself of permanently if need be. Russia didn't know what frightened him more: the fact that France felt that way, or that he had a feeling that the blond haired nation would find a way to do it.

"I see." The phrase hung in the air like a hangman's noose. "You've found me, now leave me be. As I told America, I will deal with this and I will get England back." He slowly took his gloves from his pocket and tugged them on, covering his pale skin with the black leather.

Their eyes locked, another battle raging between the two nations, blue eyes dominating as they shown with a hellish cold fire. Violet eyes broke away, traveling to the ground. Something dark had pooled on the floor, spiraling in cold rain. Tracing it up to its source, Ivan spotted a tear in the black cloth, revealing an angry gash in otherwise porcelain skin. "You're bleeding," he muttered in retort, words otherwise failing him. "It would not do good to have you leaving a trail behind you."

Francis glanced down at his leg, noticing the deep wound for the first time. Russia was right about that. It wouldn't do him much good. He should see to it before it became a hindrance. A flutter of movement caught his eye, his gaze finding its way to a white cloth being offered to him. France looked onto it distrustfully, before taking it with a nod and fastening a quick makeshift bandage. Standing, he found it was no longer in his mind. "Thank you Ivan." He walked around the nation, halting as he felt a hand clasp onto his shoulder. Turning sharply to look at it, the offending appendage was taken away as if burned.

"Francis, I understand this is a…difficult time, but you must not allow yourself to become like him. The more you do, the more his insanity will grip you." Russia regarded him thoughtfully for a moment, his stoic nature breaking in an uncharacteristic moment of understanding. "Its darkness will consume you, and it will be nearly impossible to come back from. Don't let it come to that."

The man shrouded in shadow stood with his back to the once superpower, shoulders squared. "If I must become a _monstre _to stop this bastard I will. I don't give a fuck what it takes or what happens, Russia, but nothing is going to stop me." He walked away without a second glance, eyes set ahead. "I will tear this whole world apart if I have to."

* * *

Everything _hurt_. Arthur took in a ragged breath of musty air, clenching his teeth at how even the simple act of breathing was met with pain. His throat was raw from screams and felt as though scissors had been dragged down the soft tissue. England blinked against the dark, clenching his hands tightly while forcefully trying to rip out of the new binds that held him pinned prone in the dark.

He was alone as far as he could tell. The captive nation had been awake for some time now, lying on the cold floor with his clothes torn away. He could feel the marks on his body, the bites and scratches that England wished he could claw or burn away. Nauseated, Arthur turned his head to the left, trying to tug at his bound wrists again despite the way the rope rubbed his skin raw. At least in the darkness he couldn't see the damage done. That was all right, he supposed. But... he could still _feel_every vile touch that man had left... England tilted his head back, breathing harshly through his nose. No. He wasn't going to think about it. He had to focus on getting away still. On getting back to Francis and his warm embrace. Once again, Arthur turned his head and looked in the direction where his right arm was staked down.

Back aching and protesting as he arched and tried to free himself, England growled quietly. Fuck. With a thud, he let his head hit the floor. His back was in pain. His hips felt shredded. His chest ached, as did the inside of his thighs that were coated in what was no doubt his own blood. Gritting his teeth again, Arthur tried to pull free once more with a grunt. Nothing changed save the throbbing in his arms and England closed his eyes.

Something rattled in the distance, sending Arthur's muscles to seize in panic. Swallowing painfully, he tried to quiet his breathing. Was he there? Seconds went by and Arthur tried to make out if there was anyone in the dark room. Swirls of color raced past as his eyes tried to make shapes in the blackness swallowing him.

The sound of airy whistling met his ears, a sick and twisted rendition of _Hallelujah_. A dark form morphed out of the darkness, observing his prey lying prone on the floor, pale skinned marked by his own hands. This man was his canvas, and every mark was paint depicting every delightful thing he had done to him. He remembered the screams and cries and shiver ran pleasurably down his spine. The whistling seized, an unnerving chuckle escaping his lips. Hungry eyes took in the way Arthur watched him with those broken green eyes.

He set the blowtorch down, the metallic clink echoing in the basement turned torture chamber. "Hello poppet, miss me?" In his hand, he twirled a thin metal pole like a baton. Fingers caressed the material, dark eyes penetrating the darkness easier than most others. Even in the dark this man seemed to glow, like some battered and broken angel.

Arthur's eyes flickered up to where his assailant's voice floated from, sugar sweet like chloroform. He clenched his hands as a both a wave of nausea and rage crashed through his body. Thousands of swears and threats thundered through his mind, but England stayed silent, choosing to gnash his teeth together rather than chance his voice wavering.

"Ah what's the matter, Angel?" His voice purred as he knelt down, making a careful hand run down his victim's bruised cheek. "I wasn't too rough was I?" A bright grin crossed his face, mind already racing with imagines and techniques that would push Arthur to the point of shattering. He had found early on, the more he could play with his toys, the better...claiming his reward would be.

"Fuck you," Arthur finally grit out. His voice was raw, but dripped with loathing. He stopped short of spitting a bloodied wad of spit, but only because he couldn't see the man. "Fuck you to Hell." Arthur again tried to rip out of the rope binding his wrists to the floor, this time feeling the hot liquid of his blood tickling down his skin.

There it was. There was the fire that he craved so much. It was always more fun when they fought back; actually gave him a challenge. None of the others had this much spunk to them. "Sorry love, but I'm the only one who's going to be doing any fucking around here." He licked his lips, already eager to play all over again. The iron he twisted in his hand served as a reminder as to why he was down here, that there was business to take care of. After all, he still had a day or two to take his sweet time. Idly, he wondered how much it would take to break this one.

Arthur turned his head away, hair scraping against the floor. He could hear that sick and twisted joy in the man's voice and it echoed vilely through his mind. Arthur's stomach rolled and he shut his eyes tightly, not that it changed anything. Body throbbing in dull pain, England could only think distantly that he was going to be raped again, that he would be laid open for this creature to play his demented fantasies out on. The quick breaths of the man standing above him seemed abnormally loud and Arthur could feel the shivers of fear tear through his body. At least when his eyes were closed he could faintly see soft golden hair and loving ocean eyes. At least he could pretend he was far, far away from this hell.

Brown eyes took in the change of the one lying beneath him, watching as the shaking subsided, the face growing distant. Rage ran rampant through him, disgust turning his stomach. This wretch! This mockery of God's work! Pulling his hand back, he slapped the man's cheek, a growl escaping his mouth. "YOU VILE THING, GOD ABHORS YOU EVERY MOMENT YOU BREATHE." The calm and smooth voice was lost to a shrilling and wavering shriek. The authoritative, controlled air replaced by one of near hysterics. For a moment he stared at his hand in disgust, as if tainted. Homosexuality was a disease, one God had appointed him to extinguish.

His face stung sharply, and England worked his jaw. No doubt his face was dark with the bruises that mottled his already swollen cheeks. Green eyes were nearly closed from the beating earlier. Arthur's throbbing cheek ached in time with his racing heart and he still looked away, unable to glance at the amorphous shadow of his attacker. Arthur wasn't going to give into this man's need for England's anger. There wasn't much he could do, but England could at least try and keep his emotions in check. Instead, a low and pained chuckle slipped from his swollen lips, igniting the razor pain from his broken ribs in his chest. God abhorred him for every second he breathed? God had to have hated him for a long, long time.

"You dare laugh!" The air dripped with seething rage, thick and suffocating. Clumsy hands reached for the blowtorch, seizing the cylinder with shaking hands. This monster, this demon! He probably feed off of the souls he darkened. His fingers fumbled for the switch, struggling to light the gas. "There's a special place in Hell set aside for you corrupters, you ungrateful bastards of Cain." Finally the flame sputtered to life, before roaring loudly. "The heat of Hell's flame will consume your flesh and burn your bones for all eternity."

Head whipping towards the hissing burst of hot white light, Arthur stared at the illuminated frame of his attacker. A jack-o-lantern like grin was plastered across his deranged face, and Arthur recoiled. Green eyes flicked to the flame again, the light searing his retinas as he listened to the hiss of gas. No. His breath quickened and his stomach knotted and felt as though it were filled with glass shards. "What are you doing?" Arthur asked flatly, voice low as panic soared high.

He did not answer, merely stooping to pick up the metal rod. Thrusting one end into the angry flame, brown eyes watching it twirl to evenly heat it. "God's work." Quickly, the iron took on a glow of red, radiating savagely. Still he twisted it, waiting until the red lightened to a light yellow, eyes reflecting the shinning end. A grim line set upon his face as he shut off the blow torch with a snap, the shape of a glowing cross penetrating the darkness as the brand fought against the sinister light. "If a man lies with a man as one lies with a woman..." He stepped closer to England, voice even with an eeriely practiced tone. "…both of them have done what is detestable." Turning towards the staked down hand, he stepped upon the palm. Slowly, he ground down, watching as the fingers splayed out, bones creaking underneath the strain. "They must be put to death." The brand hovered inches above the skin, the pale flesh already turning red from the nearby heat. "Their blood will be on their own heads." With a final thrust, he shoved the burning metal smack dab in the middle of Arthur's palm, listening to the strangled cry. "Leviticus 20:13."

A scream ripped from Arthur's throat as the metal blistered his skin, bubbling and charring the skin and fat as the heat radiated through his hand. Choking on his cry as the man pressed down harder, tears fell down his face. It hurt. Oh, God. It hurt. It hurt. It hurt. His broken hand radiated with the sharp blades of pain, laced with the burning and overwhelming heat. He couldn't pull away. He couldn't protect himself from the inferno. England arched his back, instinctively trying to get away from the pain that blinded him. It enveloped everything. All he wanted was to get away, to pull his hand back towards his body. Distantly he could smell the pungent and oily smoke of his own charred flesh as he screamed again.

Pulling the iron back, his face twisting into a triumphant smile as he gazed at the scorched symbol of the savior's sacrifice. The sweet smell of burnt human flesh, the delicious sound of the high pitched screaming. No one would hear him. No one would care. No one was coming. Smiling, the calm smile came over him, the fumbling gone as he reached for the blowtorch. The calm rolled back into him, the bumbling and babbling of Bible verses far away in his mind. Pausing, he watched Arthur's face pinch with pain, panting as thick tears ran down his cheeks. "Poor thing," he cooed as he knelt down and wiped the salty tears away. "Does it hurt?"

Arthur took in a shuddering breath, his body shaking in tremors from the agony that flared from his hand. He couldn't even move to try to alleviate the molten pain. Swallowing, Arthur choked and coughed, taking deep, ragged breaths as the tears continued to trail from his eyes and to the floor. He jerked away from his assailant's frigid touch, turning his head and vomiting bile from both the nausea of the intense pain and being touched. He coughed again, still straining away from the sweetly deranged soft fingers.

Tsking his tongue, he brought out a handkerchief and dabbed at the bile at the corner of his victim's chapped lips. His eyes watched curiously as the blonde haired man tried to pull away. "Oh Dove," he hummed, an almost sad undertone in his voice, as if Arthur's actions had wounded him. "Don't be like that." Ever present was the pleased gleam in his eye. Each tremor, each pathetic choked wheeze was eagerly imprinted into his mind's eye. "I must admit though," he contemplated out loud, a fond distant look in his flat eyes, "you do have such a wonderful voice." Pulling his hand back, he snatched up the torch once again, heating the brand again.

Heart racing and breaths becoming panicked, Arthur's eyes widened. No. Not again. There was nothing to do to escape. There was no relief. Arthur looked to his left hand, clenching it as the futility of his struggles finally hit him, crushing his chest and making it hard to breath. Trembling from the shock of pain, Arthur turned his green gaze to the man standing above him, trying to ignore how bright the metal was turning once again. "You won't get away with this." Arthur growled with as much strength as he could conjure. His skin was cold and clammy and a distant part of his mind knew he was going into shock. "I swear I will see you burn." Anger was keeping the mind numbing fear and pain at bay. Anger was keeping him sane.

A deep, throaty laugh left his lips, eyes still trained on the glowing metal as if fascinated. "Perhaps in the afterlife, my lamb." The fire died with a hiss of protest, metal meeting the hard cement with another echoing click. A hard boot came down softly to crush at his wrist, enough to make it ache but for the bones to remain intact. "Do not lie with a man as one lies with a woman; that is detestable." The voice seemed bored now, as if this part of the ritual was merely a requirement for this...half of the man. "Leviticus 18:22."

England groaned at the pressure on his wrist, panting as he tried to keep his hand clenched. Teeth gritted together as he thrashed as the foot slowly pressed forward, forcing his white fingers to uncurl, as the pressure near the base of his thumb grew greater. A scream clawed out from his throat as the man put all his weight onto Arthur's hand, grinding down while bones cracked and fractured with razor sharp pain. Cracking his head against the cement floor, Arthur stared at his throbbing hand unresponsive from his pleas to move. His mouth tasted like copper shavings from biting through his lip in pain, Green eyes stared out at the glowing metal in the man's hand. Despite his wanting to be gruff and angry, knowing the pain he was going to have to face again, the pain he was _still_ in, Arthur couldn't stop the gasps that came from his blood and bile covered lips. "No. No, no. Please. No."

Metallic eyes turned to gaze at Arthur's face, meeting green eyes at the broken plea. A sorrow flashed behind his eyes, not from sympathy but instead for the bones he was breaking beneath his boot. Toys were so much more fun to play with when certain parts weren't broken. Sighing, he turned to look at the now open appendage, bringing the burning metal a mere breath away from the pale skin. He held it there, teasingly and alluringly, driving more desperate cries from his victim. Pulling it away, he listened to Arthur almost take a deep breath in relief. He knelt down, bringing his head low to mutter into his plaything's ear. "Sing for me my Angel." With a smile, he plunged it down, marring the skin with a hiss, enticing a high scream from the man. The ear-curdling cry reverberated off of the wall, twisting and distorting it.

"Sing for me."

* * *

So there you go. Again, I apologize for taking an eternity to get this chapter posted and I swear on my life the next is soon to follow. Thanks to those that have stuck with this story, even when I myself have been really difficult. Thanks guys.

Oh, and on a side note: I was wondering if the Unsub should die or not. In put would be welcomed ^_^


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